The New-Old Guy
by WhatBecomesOfYou
Summary: Sam comes back to Lima, alone: "He wasn't the new guy. He was the new-old guy." Eventual Kurt/Sam.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: _Eventual Kurt/Sam, with a little bit of Finn&Sam friendship. _Inspired by and written for a good friend of mine. __This one's for you.__

* * *

><p>Sam piles his things into the backseat of his car - the used car he had bought toward the end of his time in Lima, with scraps of his paycheck and an anonymous loan, the car that symbolizes freedom to him - and sets out on the road.<p>

The terrain stays roughly the same, flat and even. He keeps his eyes on the road ahead. He knows where he's going; the only questions are how long it's going to take to get there and what he's going to do once he's there.

He can get his job back, considering his boss really liked him and was sad to see him go, and he knew he could always go back to McKinley. And for now, he can stay in his car, at least until he figures out the whole "place to lay your head" thing. It's not that much worse than camping, anyway, and camping was something that he and his father had done a lot, back in the old days, back before he lost his job the first time. At least the roof of his car doesn't leak, unlike the tent.

The little lighted sign says "Welcome to Lima" in chipped and faded red paint, and he breaks his concentration long enough to grin broadly at that thought. There's something comforting about being back.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Sam is awoken by the sun brightly shining in his window, and he stretches his arms above his head, slamming his hands into the car roof, and it's only then that he realizes exactly where he is: parked in a park parking lot. More specifically, the park that's down the street from his old house. If he squints into the morning sun, he can see the swings he swung Stevie and Stacey on.<p>

He gets out of the car and stretches. The memories that this park holds are too strong. "It's all for the best," he says, trying to rationalize the decision he had made the week before. The promised job in Aurora fell through right after they got there; the next opportunity hadn't come along until recently, with an opportunity in Johnson City.

"_You're not going to graduate on time," the school counselor in Johnson City had said, examining his thick sheaf of transcripts from each of his previous schools. "This is your fourth high school in just over two years, Mr. Evans. There's __**no**__ way." His parents had exchanged anguished looks between them, and he'd wanted to do nothing more than to sink into the chair. _

_Later that night, his parents called him out to the kitchen. "Do you want to graduate on time?" his mother asked, handing him a cracked mug with tea in it. "Because we could probably get you back in at McKinley - you seemed happy there."_

"_I do, but Dad has a job now. I don't want to make us move back for me -" he protested._

"_You do what __**you**__ feel is best," his father said. _

_He'd deliberated for a few days, and then packed up everything he had left, ready to restart his old life. Of course he'd miss his family, that wasn't the point. The point was - he guessed - that it was time to start living his own life._

He gets back in the car and drives to find something to eat. His appointment with Miss Pillsbury is still a few hours away, and McDonald's hash browns are cheap and delicious - a winning combination.

* * *

><p>"So, Sam, what brings you back to McKinley?" Emma asks, glancing over the pile of transcripts. "When you withdrew last spring, you said something about moving to Illinois?"<p>

"Yeah, well, um," he bites his lip and stares at the impeccably clean woodgrain of her desk, "I guess you could say that I need to be here?"

"I see." She shuffled the papers together and aligned them perfectly with each other. "It's not going to be easy for you to graduate on time -"

"So I've been told," he mutters under his breath, hanging his head. He has left his family and is hundreds of miles away from them, and now it's all going to be wasted. He's mentally calculating how many dollars in gas money he's wasted and how many he would need to get back to Johnson City, when she continues talking.

"_But_," she interjects, and he cautiously looks up, "_if_ you put in hard work and effort, I don't see _any_ reason you shouldn't be able to graduate with your friends."

She's smiling really sweetly at him - it's almost saccharine - and he wants to make a comment about how all of his really good friends here are seniors and there's no way he'd be graduating with them anyway, but he knows what she meant by it. "_Thank you_, Ms. P.," he says, shaking her hand with fervor, and he means what he said.

Fifteen minutes later, he's walking out of her office, with a bounce in his step and a freshly printed schedule in his hand.

* * *

><p>He'd forgotten how <em>insane<em> this school could be.

By the time third period is over, he's already caught up with most of the gossip from the past semester - who'd hooked up in the janitor's closet at homecoming, who had been caught shoplifting six-packs of Coors from the Circle K - but he's heard absolutely _nothing_ about any of his New Directions friends: the eternal sign of being next to bottom on the social ladder.

On his way to fourth period English, though, he sees a familiar head of hair turn the corner, and he speeds up his pace. "Kurt?" he asks, and the figure spins around on one heel at the sound of his voice.

"Sam? _Sam Evans_?" Kurt drops his books on the hallway floor, and Sam can see a hint of embarrassment in his face as his voice raises in pitch. "What are _you_ doing here?"

* * *

><p>He carries his tray of food to Kurt and Finn's table at lunch; Rachel's eyes light up when she sees him. "You came back so that we'd have enough people for Sectionals!" she says, embracing him. "I had hoped you would, but it seemed too <em>crazy<em> -"

"No," he says with a laugh, "I_ didn't_ come back for Sectionals."

"So, man, why are you back then?" Finn asks, popping a French fry in his mouth. "Because it seemed like you were pretty dead set on being with your family in Abilene."

"_Aurora_."

"Aurora. Whatever."

He shrugs and drags two of his French fries through a puddle of ketchup. "I should have just made a placard and hung it around my neck with the entire story printed on it, with how many times I've had to explain it today."

"Fifteen words or less, then," Kurt says, resting his chin in his hand.

"Dad lost Illinois job. New job in Tennessee. Couldn't graduate on time. Came back here." He counts on his fingers. "Fifteen on the nose."

Rachel winces, and Kurt flinches, and Finn says the words that all three of them are thinking, "Dude, that _sucks_." The other two nod in agreement.

The silence at the table is stifling, and Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat. This wasn't what he wanted out of his first day back, the pity and sympathy cards being played on him. He _wasn't _the new guy. He was the new-_old_ guy.

As if he had been reflecting on the implications of Sam's fifteen-word story, Finn asks another question, "So, are your folks here? Or where are you staying?"

"I hope not in that motel again," Kurt chimes in. "That place was an affront to good taste everywhere."

"Nah," Sam says nonchalantly, "I'm staying in my car."

Kurt's expression distorts into one of blatant disgust. Finn interjects, before Kurt can begin to formulate words in response. "_No_. You're _not _staying in your car. I don't care if we have to pay for you to stay at the Days Inn. At least you'd have a shower and a bed."

"_Finn_," Kurt and Sam say in unison. Kurt continues, "We have a guest room that we only use once a year, when Finn's aunt Margery comes to town. I'm _sure _my dad and Carole won't mind if you stay there."

"Okay," he says. "Cool." It's not worth the argument, and it's a _really_ nice thing to do.

* * *

><p>Sam throws his backpack against the wall of the Hudson-Hummel guest room and takes it all in. It's decorated in shades of navy blue and a vague sort of off-white; a quick squeeze of the mountain of pillows proves that they are indeed just as soft and fluffy as they appear to be. He flops down on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Maybe he could put up a poster or two in here, once he got settled. He has one with the constellations of North America, and another with famous movie quotes - his <em>Avatar<em> poster got damaged in one of the recent moves, and his mother had thrown it out. The room is close enough to an even better version of how he'd decorate.

"Settling in okay?" Kurt asks from just outside the door. "I brought you some homemade macaroons and lemonade, as sort of a welcome present." He walks in and sets the tray on the nightstand next to Sam.

Sam gratefully takes a macaroon and swallows it in two bites. "It's the nicest place I've ever lived in," he says, and motions for Kurt to sit on the bed next to him. "You _sure_ they won't mind me being here?"

"Carole's the one who made the macaroons in the first place," Kurt says with a smile. "They already raise two teenage boys; what's the matter with adding one more?"

"But the groceries -"

"Don't worry about the groceries, Sam." Kurt pats the blanket. "We don't go hungry here."

"We lived on fast food and frozen pizzas for a _long_ time," Sam says. "And I guess I had the leftover pizza from my job, but you never quite get that smell out of _anything_."

Kurt makes dramatic gagging noises. "I _don't_ want to think about stale pizza, Sam. But I never noticed the smell."

"Not even the cheap cologne I piled on to mask it?"

"Okay, I _did_ notice _that_ part," Kurt says with a laugh. "Come on, I think dinner's about ready. And it's _not_ pizza or anything that comes in a greasy cardboard container. I think Carole said she was making cavatelli."

"Good." Sam smiles. "That's the way I'd want it."

* * *

><p>"Look at what the cat dragged in," Santana says the next afternoon, as Sam walks to New Directions practice. "Trouty Mouth is back, and joining New Directions again? Newsflash: the population in there dropped faster than rats fleeing a sinking ship. Which is what New Directions <em>is <em>anymore. It's the Titanic, in musical form, and the captain wears argyle."

"Nice to see you again too, Santana," Sam replies, keeping his voice low and even. "I heard about that, but I'd rather stick with my friends."

"I thought you and Mercedes were becoming quite '_friendly_,' if you know what I'm saying." She uses her fingers to form air quotes around the word "friendly." "And _she _jumped ship."

"I can still see her outside of our after-school activities, if I want to," he says, "I don't think there's anything wrong with _that_."

"Just remember who your _real_ friends here are." She walks away, and Sam ducks into a bank of lockers to catch his thoughts before walking into the choir room.

"His real friends" feels like a loaded phrase. He's always prided himself on being able to get along with just about _anyone_. There are exceptions, naturally: Karofsky was never one of his favorite people, and Santana would more than likely be omitted from his hypothetical Christmas card list. But he likes Mercedes and Quinn in equal measure - the thought of having to choose between them to hang out with, simply on merit of being in different glee clubs, is a heartbreaker.

And then there's Finn and Kurt, and by extension through Finn, Rachel. Finn and Kurt had welcomed him into their home, shared their dinner table with him, and gone_ completely_ far and above anything that he could have imagined the definition of a _friend_ including. If they aren't real friends, then - who _is_?

He squares his shoulders and walks through the choir room door for the first time in what feels like _forever_.

* * *

><p>A few weeks later, Sam's staying up late, furiously scribbling the rough draft of his essay on the causes of the American Revolution and singing under his breath - "<em>like I'm the only one that you'll ever love, like I'm the only one who knows your heart<em>" - practicing for the group song at Sectionals. There's too little time to get everything done anymore; he has to multi-task in order to keep his head above water. At least he's settled into the routine of living here again.

He hears a whimper and a cry from the hallway; he puts down his pen and eases back in the chair. "Kurt?" There's no response, so he repeats the question, a little louder this time. "_Kurt_? You okay?"

He steps out into the hallway, and he sees Kurt curled up in a small ball, tucked against the wall. His legs are folded up, and his knees are touching his chin, and he's rocking back and forth crying. "B-Blaine b-b-_broke_ up with me," Kurt stammers out. "He-he-he said that it wasn't w-w-working _out_." A fresh spate of tears comes pouring out of Kurt as he finishes the sentence.

Sam feels dumbfounded; it wasn't that he ever put much thought to what would happen if Kurt and Blaine ever broke up, because it was just something that was there and a fact of life, like Finn and Rachel having a thing for each other or something, and he's really unsure of what to do to help Kurt at this juncture. He pats Kurt on the shoulder and tries to think of what to say. "He's an idiot," he says, and he's unsure if this is really the right thing to be saying right now, but it's how he _feels_ at the moment. Seeing Kurt broken in two like this over a guy is _tough_.

Kurt looks up at him, bloodshot eyes staring at him as if he had three heads or blue skin or something. "S-_so_ not helpful," he says between hiccups, "but t-t-_thanks_."

Sam awkwardly reaches around Kurt, his arms encircling Kurt's form, in an attempt to give him some sort of comfort. "I'm here if you want to stick pins in a voodoo doll of him," he says, and for the quickest of instants, Sam _swears_ he sees Kurt smile.

-_to be continued_-


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: _I've had this part written for about as long as the first part, but had lost the document until I recently cleaned out my writing folders. Sorry about the wait, and hopefully the third (and so far, final) part won't take as long to be posted._

* * *

><p>It turns out that when Kurt's upset, he bakes. And bakes.<p>

Sam comes down one Saturday morning, a week or so before Christmas, and sees rows of gingerbread men lining every available surface in the kitchen. "What's up with the gingerbread army? Was there an invasion at Fort Gumdrop? Or some sort of crisis at the Bay of Icing?"

"Laugh all you want," Kurt says, stirring a bowl of dough by hand with a wooden spoon. "But I'll have you know that cookies are cathartic."

"_Eating_ them, maybe," Sam says, picking up one and examining it closely, "but I'm not convinced that _baking_ them helps."

Kurt sets down the bowl. "I take that as a challenge," he says, and tosses an apron over to Sam. "There's a spare bowl in the cupboard, and the ingredients are," he looks around, "well, just follow the recipe, and you'll get it. Eventually."

"You sure I can't use one of those little hand mixer things?" Sam asks a while later, shaking out his hand. "It would make it a lot easier to stir this dough."

"It's not about what's _easy_," Kurt says, rolling the dough out onto the counter and picking up the cookie cutter. "If it was easy, then it wouldn't be cathartic!" He stamps out perfectly aligned rows of gingerbread men, peels them from the counter, aligns them on the cookie sheet, and puts the sheet in the oven.

"I didn't know that hand cramps were considered catharsis," he mutters.

"Hey, I _heard_ that!"

* * *

><p>The aftermath of the gingerbread baking day looks like the pictures Sam saw in his world history textbook the year before of the terra cotta army in China. Hundreds of gingerbread cookies lined up in perfect rows around the house, cooling, and Sam and Kurt collapse on separate ends of the couch. "I don't think I've <em>ever<em> baked that many cookies before," Sam says, "well, I haven't baked any since I was a kid and my mom let me lick one of the beaters. I always wanted the one with more chocolate chips."

"My mother did the same thing. I was always her little helper. She called me her little chef," Kurt says, and his voice trails off, and he seems distant and far away. "I didn't go in the kitchen for _months_ after -"

"You don't have to talk about this."

Kurt shrugs his shoulders. "I'd rather think about her than Blaine right now. At least she didn't _choose_ to leave me." The silence is awkward after Kurt's declaration; Sam examines his thumbnails, while Kurt drums his fingers on the armrest of the couch. "I think the cookies are about ready for a taste test," Kurt finally says. "How about we try them out?"

* * *

><p>"Well, <em>I<em> say Operation Hansel and Gretel was a tasty success," Sam says, closing the last of the cookies inside a snowman-shaped cookie jar and brushing loose crumbs from his hands.

"_That's_ what you're calling it?" Kurt leans back against the counter and bites the head off one of the gingerbread men.

"Do you know of any _other_ fairy tales involving gingerbread?"

"Not off the top of my head, no, but that _doesn't_ mean that it needs to sound like a military operation took place in my kitchen today." He pauses for a moment, washes his hands, and turns back to Sam. "Thanks, though. Baking with someone else is -"

"Don't mention it," Sam says with a smile. "I had fun. Really."

"Good," Kurt returns his smile with a matching one. "Let's clean this up though before my dad and Carole get back."

"Yeah, I doubt she'd like gingerbread goop on her stovetop."

"No, not really."

* * *

><p>Sam sends a large package of presents to Tennessee a few days later; on top is a carefully wrapped package of gingerbread men. He'd bought Stacey a Barbie and some clothes for said Barbie; Stevie was getting a <em>really<em> cool remote-controlled car that Finn had helped him pick out - "Dude, Stevie's a lucky kid. I would have _loved_ one of these growing up. Still would," Finn had said as they browsed the shelves at Toys R Us. His endorsement was enough; the next day, he'd gone back and bought a second one for Finn.

His parents had been harder to shop for, but his mother was getting some of that bath lotion she really enjoyed but had been going without for a few years, and his father was getting a new watch - the last time he'd talked to his mother, she'd mentioned that his watch strap broke and was carrying the broken remnants of the watch in his pants pocket. As Kurt would say, that would _not_ do, and the two of them had gone watch shopping together.

It's going to be awkward and unusual being away from them for the holidays, but Stevie and Stacey both have the chicken pox, and his parents had told him to stay home and not get sick. After all, he'd never had the chicken pox when he was a kid. Somehow lucked into that one. So when he got back to _his_ - he'd begun to think of it as his, even though he still kept a few boxes packed in the corner of the closet, and logically he knows it's still Finn and Kurt's - house, he closes himself in his room and turns off the lights.

The neighbors' outdoor lights twinkle merrily in the distance, and it almost feels like some cosmic force taunting him.

* * *

><p>The five of them are sitting around the living room on Christmas Eve, chatting and sipping eggnog and eating the last of the gingerbread, while Christmas carols play softly in the background. "This is really different than Christmases with my family," Sam says, wincing slightly, "normally Stevie and Stacey would be running around and pestering us to open all of our gifts now and save none for tomorrow."<p>

"That sounds like Finn when he was younger," Carole says, laughing. "He had absolutely no patience when it came to waiting for Santa."

"_Mom_!"

"I'd let him open _one_ present, and then we'd save the rest for after Christmas dinner."

Burt nodded. "That's how we did it too, when Cathy was around." He swallows a lump in his throat and Kurt sniffles slightly.

He's not the only one who's missing someone this holiday season, he realizes; Burt and Kurt have Kurt's mother - Cathy, he guesses - and Finn and Carole have Finn's father, and he's the lucky one of the bunch, because he can at least call his parents in the morning and wish them a Merry Christmas. He raises his glass of eggnog in a silent toast, and the others follow his lead. "So, who's ready for Christmas duck tomorrow?" Burt asks, and the topic is changed away, and Sam settles back into his seat, enjoying the atmosphere.

The others gradually filter out one by one, until it's only him and Carole left. "I have to admit," she says, "I wasn't sure about you moving in at first, Sam."

"What changed your mind?" This is the last thing he really wants to hear tonight, a thing about how he should be back with his family, instead of hundreds of miles away.

"Well, Kurt came and talked to me, and he seemed so...so...the word's on the tip of my tongue. _Earnest_! That's it. Like you really meant something to him and he was worried about you and wanted the best for you, and wasn't going to take no for an answer."

"I would have been perfectly fine sleeping in my car, though. Or Finn offered to put me up in a motel."

"Where would that boy have gotten the money, though?" She wrinkles her nose, and Sam laughs. "He does mean well, _most_ of the time, but that's beyond his reach. Besides, you need a mother, and if you can't be with your own, well, I _do_ have a little experience in that area."

"Thanks, Carole," Sam says, standing up and hugging her.

"You know, he cares about you, Sam. A lot."

"Finn?"

"No, Kurt. I can see it in his eyes. It's stepmother's intuition, you know - it's been more than obvious since the day you moved in."

* * *

><p>The other members of New Directions - and a couple members of the TroubleTones - are milling around Rachel's living room on New Year's Eve, and Sam notes the prominent placement of the karaoke machine. The lessons learned at her party the year before still ring true; he's not sipping on stale beer, but instead on some sort of punch - okay, in fairness, someone <em>could<em> have spiked it. He nods at Quinn as he passes her by; she looks preoccupied and distant all at the same time, and she barely acknowledges his gesture.

It's approaching midnight, and Rachel threads her way between everyone, handing out plastic wine glasses - "look at how cute these are!" - and Finn follows dutifully behind, pouring champagne, or something like it. Times Square is on the television, so they'll watch the ball drop along with most of the country. He feels a tap on his arm; turning around, he sees Kurt standing behind him.

"Mind if I -?" Kurt starts to ask, before Sam cuts him off.

"I don't mind at all," he says with a smile. They stand there watching the countdown begin, and Kurt slowly moves his hand over toward Sam's, gradually linking the tips of their fingers together. Rachel and Finn are standing by the karaoke machine, and as the ball begins to drop, they raise their glasses in the air as a toast.

"Happy 2012!" they shout in unison as the ball finishes its drop, and Artie throws confetti in the air, and Sam looks over at Kurt. The look on Kurt's face is so hopeful as he tilts his head up toward Sam's, and Sam feels his stomach fluttering nervously as he tilts his head ever-so-slightly down to match it.

And then they kiss, their glasses tapping against each other.

It's kind of funny, to Sam anyway, what goes through his mind as he's kissing Kurt - besides the normal feelings of "yay, kissing is fun," he remembers something one of his parents said once. "The person you're with at midnight is going to be very important to the rest of your year."

In the background, he can hear Rachel leading a small chorus of people in a rendition of Auld Lang Syne - "_for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne_" - and he sees Quinn leaning on Puck's shoulder, a content smile on her face for once, and Brittany and Santana were oblivious to the rest of the group, despite being in the middle of the room, and maybe his parents were right.

Maybe, just maybe, there was something important and magical about this night.

And if they were, he couldn't be more thrilled about the prospects 2012 would bring.

-_to be continued_-


End file.
